


The Witness (The Passing on the Love remix)

by DragonsPhoenix



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jossverse
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Physical Abuse, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsPhoenix/pseuds/DragonsPhoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tara doesn't rest after her death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Remix of [As He Holds Her](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/3771689/1/As-He-Holds-Her)
> 
> Nominated in the I Will Remember You & That Old Gang Of Mine categories at the [2016 Wicked Awards](http://wicked-awards.livejournal.com/47258.html)  
> 

Willow's blouse … so white, pure … splattered with red, bright red, so much brighter than her red hair. “Your shirt.”

There's an old Twilight Zone episode where death is a small, back-country road, a dirt road only a few feet wide. I found myself on a road just like it. The vegetation off to each side, full of Virginia creeper and umbrella plants, well it was so lush I couldn't see more than ten feet off in any direction except along the path. My bare feet kicked up dust. That didn't seem right somehow. It seemed like I should have had shoes on, but I'd walked those selfsame dusty back roads most of my life and my feet had been bare more often than not. 

I'd walked those dusty back roads most of my life … until I'd left for college that is. College. University. Sunnydale. Willow. Blood. Not Willow's blood. Mine. 

I slapped my hand against my leg, checking if I was still solid – I was – and as if that slap were a signal a whirlwind swirled up out of the dust. It great and grew, taller and wider and darker, and when it faded away there was a woman standing before me, a mountain woman, not a dried up scrawny stick but a set of luscious curves and overflowing bounty with golden curls cascading down past her waist. “Blessed be.”

“B-Blessed be.” Hearing myself stutter, I ducked my head down, letting my hair fall into my face. 

“No worries,” The woman said, and then I wasn't worried. I felt … serene, like a lake extending down, down, down deep into the center of the world. 

“I'm here to help you choose,” she added. 

“Choose?”

“Decide what's next.”

With that the path, well, vanished isn't the right word, but the path was gone, replaced by someone's home, replaced by a house that wrapped me in a comforter of warmth and asked me to set up my feet and make myself at home. The fireplace, opening to both the kitchen and the living room, sat nestled in the brick wall separating the two rooms. 

Outside of the scent of the fire, I picked up the scent of mulled cider, my grandma's recipe from the smell of it. As the woman carried two mugs out from the kitchen, I recalled the old folktales. Yarns about folks who'd eaten as little as one seed or taken only one tiny sip and had gotten stuck in the underworld. And I recalled the Greek myths, those of the river Lethe. Drink once and lose all memory of your previous life. The woman took a sip as if proving it was safe. “All that's up to you.” She wrapped her hands around her mug as if soaking up the warmth. “And you can call me Kat.”

“Kat,” I replied. “You said it's up to me? What is?” At least I'd lost my stutter. I think it was the comfort of that place. It's hard to feel anxious when you've never felt so at home. 

“What's up to you is whether you're safe or not. Eating or drinking, you decide if it's harmful or not.” She nodded toward the cider. “I'm not here to trip you up or lead you astray, but if that's what you want.”

“You mean my thoughts control what happens here?”

“To an extent, but nothing will harm you unless you want it to.”

“Why would I want anything to harm me?”

She shrugged. “Some people do. Some from guilt; others from needing to play the victim.”

I'm not a victim. I've fought demons and survived. I took a sip of the cider and grinned in appreciation. It did taste just like granny's. “You said I had to choose?”

“Yep, you've got three choices going out from here. You can go onto whatever's next although you don't get a look before you go, you can be reborn and live again, or you can go back as a witness.”

“I want Willow.” The way the words spilled out of my mouth, it was as if they were speaking themselves. Kat looked disappointed as if I'd chosen wrong, but I couldn't take those words back. I did want Willow. I'd always want Willow. “I can go back to Willow, right?”

“You can, but that's not an easy road. She won't be able to see you or hear you. She won't know you're there at all.”

“But you said I could help.”

“You can,” Kat said, “but as to how, well, that you have to work out for yourself.”

“I don't care. I still want Willow.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You can go back as a witness.” I figured I'd be seeing Willow's grief. I thought I'd be a comfort. It's true that I did find grief, but it was a grief turned to rage, to destruction. Willow's rage. Willow … She'd called up a goddess, a demon, a creature powerful enough to end the world, and Xander, he stood alone between Willow and her demon. I threw myself between them. “Willow. Stop!” And I learned what witness meant. They didn't see me. They didn't hear me. I may as well not have been there at all. 

Willow's blast shot through me. I turned to see Xander crumpled on the ground at the feet of the demon statue. I thought he was dead but then his hand twitched and then he was pulling himself up off the ground. 

“You can't stop this.”

“Willow, no.” I wasn't even thinking that she couldn’t hear me. I just wanted Willow to stop. “Don't do this. You can't come back from this.”

“Yeah, I get that. It's just, where else am I gonna go? You've been my best friend my whole life. World gonna end ... where else would I want to be?”

“Is this the master plan? You're going to stop me by telling me you love me?” It hurt. Willow's talking to Xander, seeing Xander, when she couldn't see or hear me. I know it's selfish, me worrying about myself when the world was ending, but that's how I felt. 

“I do love you, Willow. Please. I don't want to see you hurting. Please, stop.” 

I had tears in my eyes and I wasn't shouting any more, but my thoughts echoed Xander's. Yes Willow, stop. Don't do this. I don't want to see you do this. 

“It doesn't matter. I'll still love you.”

“Shut up.” Her words were weaker, less forceful, and I could hear her sadness coming through. Xander was stopping her, but no, that's not it. She was stopping herself but it was because she loved Xander that she was willing to stop, and I was there to witness it. Xander saving the world, saving Willow, when all I could do was stand there and watch. 

Xander held Willow through her grief. He held her until Buffy and Dawn came, and then his love held her up. I could only follow. I followed Willow back to Buffy's house and then to England, but Willow never saw me. Willow never needed me. She had Xander and Buffy and Dawn, and then in England she had Giles and the coven. I witnessed it all. I saw her heal. I saw her learning to live without me, and I'm glad for her, I am, because Willow should be happy and Willow should be alive and joyful. But I can see that she'll get to joyful without my help. 

In the end, I couldn't stay. It was too painful, always watching and never seen. And so, having nowhere else to go, I turned toward home. It wasn't my home even than, and I knew that before starting out, but what else can I call it. Donnie and Pa, they were as bad as ever, sniping, mean and hateful. Donnie had gotten some girl, Mary is her name, in a family way and they were married by the time I'd come back around. 

Mary sniped right back. She's stronger than I was, or maybe bolder since she doesn't have Ma's quiet strength. She talked back. Sassing Pa started calling it. The one time he hit her for it, she grabbed a cast iron pan and swung right back. “You don't hit me, old man.” Donnie jumped in, playing the peacemaker, but things weren't right between Mary and Donnie after that and P took to muttering Bible verses: “Let the women learn is silence with all subjection.”

The first time Donnie smacked Mary, she ran home to her mother, but she didn't get much sympathy. “I told you that boy was trouble right from the get go, but you had to keep on with him. Well, it's too late now. You've made your bed. Now you have to lay in it.” After that, Mary wore her bruises like a badge, almost daring anyone to comment on it. No one did, or almost no one. Grace, who worked with a woman's shelter, took Mary aside one day outside of church, quiet like, to let her know help was there if she needed it. Mary ripped the card to pieces and Grace kept her opinion to herself after that. But that night, after dinner, Mary sits alone in the kitchen and lays her hands on her stomach, bulging full and heavy with the weight of her child. “This is your fault,” she told the child. 

As I leaned down to wrap my arms around Mary, I thought of Xander holding Willow through her grief, loving her no matter what. “This is your child,” I crooned in Mary's ear. “Your little baby girl. You can't hate her. Please don't hate her.” I poured my love into Mary, knowing it wouldn't help. Just like with Xander and Willow, there was nothing I could do to help, but I couldn't sit by and watch her hate her child. 

After three hours of labor, after screaming that she hates the world, when the nurse puts her daughter into Mary's arms, Mary's eyes light up. “Who's mama's precious baby girl? Who's my sweet Abby?” I don't know if my words helped or if Mary would have loved her anyway, and it doesn't really matter. When it counted, Mary did love her, does love her. That's the important thing. 

Telling herself that a child needs her Pa, Mary stayed and hid the bruises Donnie left behind. I felt I wasn't making a difference but I couldn't just leave her. Even though she didn't know it, she hadn't been abandoned. I figured that had to mean something. 

Abby was four when she knocked over Donnie's beer. “You goddam little bitch.” He knocked her halfway across the room. Mary flew out of the kitchen, not touching Abby at first as if afraid even a gentle touch would hurt, but then Abby was sitting up, wrapping her arms around Mary's neck, and crying into her shoulder. “You'd better make her shut up.” Donnie was blustering something fierce, trying to cover up that he was worried too. 

For once Mary wasn't shouting back. Real quiet like, she put Abby to bed. She didn't bring it up again, not that night, not the next morning. Pa congratulated Donnie saying, “You finally got that one trained right.”

Sitting in the back seat of the car, leaving the only home she'd ever known, Mary stared straight ahead, keeping here eyes on the road ahead. She was so strong, so much stronger than I'd realized, and I didn't know if that strength had come from me or if it was something she'd always had. I did know that it didn't matter. That strength got her out of hell and that's what counts.


End file.
